Too Far Gone (Sam Pope Series Book 4)

by Robert Enright

  The two men chuckled, when suddenly, Etheridge’s phone gave a satisfying chime. It was linked to his computers upstairs in the loft.

  The decoding had completed.

  The two men left the kitchen and returned to the loft where the heat emanating from the servers felt like stepping into a sauna. After cracking the large windows and letting in the brisk, night-time air, Etheridge sat down at the base of several screens, and flicked his powerful system into life.

  The files were now labelled correctly, and a quick search landed them on a folder marked ‘Hailstorm’

  ‘This is it,’ Etheridge said, the tension in the room was palpable. ‘You sure you want to know what’s in this? Once we do, we can’t go back.’

  Sam reached forward and clicked open the folder. A grid of documents welcomed them and systematically, they opened them reading through each one. As they ventured further into the truth, their eyes widened.

  Sam’s fist clenched.

  The truth of Project Hailstorm laid bare to them.

  Sam felt sick.

  ‘Jesus. Fucking. Christ.’ Etheridge exclaimed, as they read the mission report.

  Seeing the events written down was like lifting a blindfold and Sam suddenly felt woozy, as the memories that had evaded him for so long, suddenly came rushing back.

  He remembered.

  He remembered everything.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Seven Years Earlier…

  The sun had long since set over the horizon, the ferocious heat that bathed Afghanistan on a daily basis had been unbearable at times. But none of the squadron had uttered even the smallest of complaints. All of them were heavily trained, the best of the best, and Sam knew he belonged among them.

  For over a decade, he’d been the UK’s most feared sniper, racking up over ninety kills for his country, many of which were high profile targets or covert operations needing his cover. For the most part, his career had been a sparkling journey of success, with medals and praise showered upon him for his skill and bravery.

  The horror from three years ago, when he was blown from the mountains overlooking the depleted town of Chikari haunted his nightmares, the final moments with his good friend Matt McLaughlin, his spotter, who was blown away by the blast. Not a day went by that he didn’t mourn his friend’s memory.

  They had never recovered a body and Sam could only hope that the young man had felt no pain when the missile hit.

  Apart from another mission gone wrong in the Amazon rainforest, Sam had a reputation to back up Marsden’s recruitment of him into the elite squadron, overseen by the imperious General Ervin Wallace.

  The man carried himself with unshakable power, like a prize bull patrolling his pen, and although the entire squadron who had made camp two clicks south of the target were some of the most skilled men the UK and US had ever seen, none of them dare speak out of line.

  Wallace was a tyrant.

  But he got the job done.

  It was why he’d been given the go ahead to create an elite team for missions that were so off the book, they were not recorded. The long-lasting partnership between the UK and America had taken on a new role, one of policing the world without it knowing.

  For soldiers like Sam, and the others who were preparing their weapons, it was a duty they had willingly signed up for.

  For men like Wallace, it was like a drug.

  The power.

  The control.

  With the resources bestowed upon him by the government, Wallace had created a team that made him one of the most powerful men in the world. The finer details were kept to hushed conversations in dark corners. The official reports would be written with as much information redacted as needed.

  The world would only know the bare minimum.

  The reports would be useful only as a record of an event.

  The soldiers themselves knew what had happened but were never privy as to why. Again, need to know become unknown, and despite his unease, Sam followed his orders as a good soldier did.

  The war on terror had been raging for years, with horrifying milestones such as 9/11 and 07/07 a painful reminder that the war never ended.

  The fight was never over.

  In secret government boardrooms, Wallace was hailed as a hero. A man who had pulled together two of the most powerful armed forces in the world and took the fight to the bad guys.

  They had already successfully completed three missions, all of them taking place on the outskirts of Kabul, the capitol of Afghanistan. Several prominent figures in the Taliban militia had been eradicated, and the squadron had lost only one man.

  A Corporal Lance Milton.

  The American died in an explosion when a fallen Taliban soldier pulled the pin on a grenade as Milton turned his body over.

  It was a fateful mistake, one which the rest of the squadron mourned and learned from.

  There was no humility anymore.

  Every Taliban soldier was to be killed on sight, with a double tap a requirement. The phrase didn’t sit too well with Sam. Not only because it was coined by his American brethren, but because in Sam’s career, he’d never needed the security of a second shot.

  Sam only needed one shot.

  Lethal in one.

  That’s what the smarmy Trevor Sims had said, the repugnant man following Wallace around like a snivelling shadow. While Marsden had left the operation after recruiting Sam, he’d warned him of Sims.

  The man was distasteful, racist, and delusional.

  But he had no moral compass and his blind ambition made him as loyal as a dog.

  Perfect for his role as Wallace’s second in command.

  As the cold night washed over the dusty wasteland surrounding their camp, Sam watched as an unmarked Jeep arrived, it’s lights off and two men inside. As it came to a stop, the driver quickly leapt out, scarpering around to the back of the vehicle and pulling out a large sports bag. From the passenger seat, a large, stoic man stepped, his neat beard framing a strong jaw. His piercing eyes locked onto the driver who handed him the bag and then back away.

  Sam didn’t know his name, but the man was tall, stocky, and walked with a purpose. A few murmurs from the rest of the watching crew mentioned the name ‘Farukh’, but Sam paid no heed.

  If he needed to know that man, then Wallace would have made an introduction.

  As the man disappeared into the tent where Wallace and Sims were talking strategy, Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Inside, he looked at the photo of Lucy, her smile bright enough to light up the dark dessert. He yearned to return home to her, to their home in Ruislip, where they’d discussed starting a family.

  This would be the last mission, he decided. It was time to step back from the never-ending war and build a new life.

  Maybe he could help train others to take his place, guide those with the gift of accuracy down a career path such as his own. The thought saddened him, as he didn’t want others to face the horrors he had.

  To experience the same pain and injuries he had.

  His best friend, Theo, had been with him for a few years in the same battalion, his skills as a medic keeping a number of their brothers alive.

  But even Theo, the most optimistic man on the planet, had decided to step away. After a late night discussion on a cliff face many miles away, his friend had spoken about giving back to the community and had made good on his word.

  Theo was now running a youth centre in London, helping under privileged kids stay on the right path. Maybe that was Sam’s next move? Give back. Lucy had suggested becoming a police officer, which did hold an appeal.

  Before he could follow that train of thought any further, Wallace stepped into the camp, decked out in his camouflage uniform, the jacket done up to the top and a cap squeezed over his large, bald skull.

  ‘Attention,’ he barked, and the entire strike force turned silent. ‘Our target is located in the facility two miles north. Abdullah Bin Akbar. One of the Taliban’s c
hief officers. We are expecting a small team, heavily armed. Shoot to kill and do it swiftly. In and out, gentlemen.’

  The large man stepped out from the tent, walking proudly beside Wallace and staring at them all without a hint of hesitation. Wallace continued.

  ‘This is Ahmad Farukh. An Afghanistan Secret Service Officer who has offered us valuable intel on Bin Akbar. He will be riding with me. Any questions?’

  No one ever had any questions.

  The orders were clear. Storm the base and eliminate all targets.

  ‘Good.’ Wallace nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

  The squadron lifted their rifles, secured any further weapons to their persons, and began to march. Sam was one of six men selected for the operation.

  Project Hailstorm.

  Wallace had picked the name himself, comparing his ambition with a mighty storm that would destroy the Taliban intelligence chain. But the soldiers, in their quarters, had mocked the decision, claiming that Wallace just wanted a cool sounding name for when the mission was over. Sam didn’t care.

  When the mission was finally over, he would be going home.

  Back to Lucy.

  To begin their life together again.

  The two-mile walk through the dark, uneven terrain was done in silence, with the three American soldiers taking point, while Sam and two others covered them. Further behind, Wallace, Sims, and the terrifying Farukh followed, flanked by two further gunmen. As they approached the facility, Sam began to absorb as much detail as he could.

  It had always been part of his training, to take in his surroundings, to memorise as many factors as possible.

  It made him deadly.

  The stone structure was shrouded in darkness, the shadows covering as much stone as the moon above would allow. There was no sign of light, or life, and Sam began to question whether a Taliban outpost would be left so vulnerable.

  Out front, a rusty old car was parked, hardly the transport a wealthy militia would afford.

  Something didn’t sit right.

  In unison, the six soldiers lowered their night vision goggles, and Sam squinted as the building was bathed in the bright green glow. Ahead of him, two of his squadron raced across the stones, keeping low, their M4 Carbine rifles held at the ready. With one covering, the other slid a combat knife into the tyre of the vehicle, rendering it useless.

  Beyond the car, an Arabic cry filled the air.

  The covering soldier stood tall, rifle clasped against his shoulder, eye on the sight.

  He pulled the trigger, and an instant flash rocketed from the end of his gun. The oncoming man dropped to the ground, riddled with bullets.

  Shoot to kill. Without hesitation.

  The same as the other missions in Project Hailstorm.

  Suddenly, a few flashes of white appeared from the darkness of the windows, as bullets flew from the building towards the squadron.

  ‘Open fire,’ Wallace demanded, and the other soldiers raised their rifles, unloading the clips without mercy at the building. A few more men raced out, hands in the air, but were met with bullets.

  Surrendering or holding explosives, it didn’t matter.

  Wallace wanted them eradicated.

  After a few more moments, the scene fell deathly silent and the two soldiers by the vehicle began to circle the building to the right-hand side, while Sam’s squadron took the left. The crunch of gravel underfoot echoed loudly through the eerie silence, and as Sam watched his fellow soldiers round the building, he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him.

  Something wasn’t right, and Sam had dedicated his life to doing the right thing.

  Quickly, Sam clambered through one of the paneless windows of the structure and entered the dark, unknown layout of the building. The corridors were illuminated in a pale green, his goggles affording him sight as he slowly drew his rifle up, taking careful steps towards the exit of the room. In his earpiece, he could hear Wallace demanding an update and knew it was only a matter of time before his absence was noticed.

  Outside the building, he heard another burst of machine gun fire and confirmation of two more dead in a thick, Texan accent. Sam stepped into the corridor, the stone walls were bare, and the building resembled a tomb more than it did a terrorist outpost.

  There were no soldiers.

  No plans. No equipment.

  No sign of the Taliban.

  Quickly, Sam made his way through the corridor, ignoring the fury of Wallace who was demanding he return to base, as word had got round that he’d gone rogue.

  Sam turned a corner, flicking his rifle up and down, ensuring the coast was clear, before he descended the dusty, stone staircase. He stepped off the bottom step, dropped to one knee, and whipped the rifle to his eyeline.

  His finger resting on the trigger.

  ‘Please. Don’t shoot.’

  The man stood ten feet away, his arms splayed out to his side. Behind them, a frail woman cowered, along with two young children. Their faces were wet with tears and Sam stood, lowering his rifle.

  These were no Taliban soldiers.

  It was a terrified family, trying their best to hide.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sam demanded, his mind racing.

  ‘My name is Abdullah Bin Akbar.’ The man spoke in broken English, his words stuttering with fear. ‘We are unarmed.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Sam asked, stepping forward, his hands held up as a show of attrition.

  ‘I find information. Information that Taliban working with governments.’ The man looked back at his terrified family, trying to calm them in his native tongue. He turned back to Sam. ‘Taliban receive funding from countries to build on campaign.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Please. My family. We go into hiding.’ The man began, but suddenly, a deafening bang echoed through the room and Sam felt a searing pain through his back, followed by another before he hit the ground. It only took him a couple of seconds to realise he’d been shot twice, the bullets ripping out through his chest and he hit the stone hard, his breathing quickening as blood pumped from the bullet wounds.

  As his vision began to blur, he arched his head up towards the family, watching as Farukh stepped forward, grabbing the two children by the hair and dragging them away from their screaming mother, another gunshot turning the top of her skull to paint. As she dropped to the floor a few feet from Sam, he watched as Abdullah fell to his knees, looking over her. Two large, military boots obscured Sam’s vision, and Abdullah flashed him a knowing look, confirming the entire lie that was Project Hailstorm.

  Abdullah Bin Akbar wasn’t a terrorist. He was a man who had discovered the truth.

  General Wallace pointed the gun at Abdullah and pulled the trigger, the bullet eviscerating the man’s skull and he fell atop his wife, both of them dead. As Sam’s consciousness faded, he heard the sickening sound of a knife piercing skin and shed a tear for the children who were being slain.

  Project Hailstorm had been a cover-up job.

  Hiding the links between the UK, US, and other governments with global terrorism.

  Wallace.

  Sam’s eyes began to close against his wishes, the life leaving his body and he thought of Lucy, begging her forgiveness for not returning to her and for the part he’d unwittingly played in it all.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam and Etheridge sat in silence for the next few hours, pouring over the files in sheer disbelief.

  The war that Sam had been a part of for most of his career had been a lie, the betrayal laid out for him in documents only to be seen by those who portrayed it. There was a very real terrorist threat on a global scale. But instead of fighting against it, Sam had been helping lay the foundations for it.

  As the tears fell from his eyes, Sam read report after report, his actions leaping from the page. Several targets he’d eliminated during Project Hailstorm had been those trying to expose the truth, all of them silenced by the pull of his trigger. />
  He had helped to hide the truth.

  To allow Wallace, in collusion with other powerful figures from around the world, to build an empire based off the fear of terrorism.

  As Etheridge read on, he felt sick, realising that his own government had been duped by a man who had risen to an unassailable level of power.

  Wallace was funding global terrorism through Blackridge, with several untraceable payments sent to the likes of the IRA, the Taliban, and ISIS. He had started a revolution in Bolivia, allowing a militia regime to take the throne and through it, had portrayed himself as a hero.

  He was fighting a war he’d instigated.

  For every promotion or reward Wallace had received for his public fight on the world’s biggest threat, he had ensured thousands had died for it to happen.

  The man was a monster.

  Pure evil.

  But the government, the media, and the country held him as a hero, a man who had dedicated his life to keeping the world safe.

  Sam pushed his chair back, the legs squealing as they scraped the floor. He stood woozily, the truth hitting him like a ten-tonne truck and Etheridge struggled to his feet to help him.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ Sam snapped, clattering into the door and half falling down the stairs. Etheridge watched from the doorway as Sam rushed into the bathroom, dropped to his knees, and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

  He felt sorrow for the man who had lost so much and now had to face the very real reality of his actions.

  Sam had always strived to do the right thing. It was what had driven his mission over the past year, using the skills he had to bring an end to pain and corruption. To help those who were held under the oppressive boot of injustice.

  But now, the entire backbone of his once proud career had been shattered.

  He had blood on his hands.

  Lots of it.

  Etheridge gingerly lowered himself down the stairs and sat on the last step, stretching out his damaged leg and looking at the top of the range knee brace clamped around it. He was another man caught in the cross fire, his permanent crippling a ripple effect of Sam’s actions. While he would never blame Sam, he knew it was just another cross that Sam bore.